ISIS, THE ASTROLOGIST
WE'RE taking up astrology quite seriously—our Little Group of Serious Thinkers, you know—and we've hired the loveliest lady astrologer to cast our horoscopes and give us a talk and get us started right.
She wrote a letter to me—the most perfectly fascinating letter—and I told her to call, and we looked her over. She wore a beautiful sky-blue gown with gold stars on it—one of those Greek ones, you know, like poor, dear Isadora Duncan wore—and a gold star in the middle of her forehead.
"It makes her look like a unicorn, that star," Ravenswood Wimble said. But then nobody ever pleases Ravenswood Wimble completely. He is so—if you get me.
"If a unicorn, then a celestial unicorn," Fothy Finch said. Fothy is too dear for anything; he is always hunting for the good in people, like Apollo, or Euripides—which was it?—when they gave him the basket full of wheat and chaff, and he separated them. Or maybe it was Diogenes.
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